


Three True Things That Happened to Victor Budarin (and One That Didn't)

by misura



Category: Push (2009)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Mindwiping, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Truth being, of course, a mostly irrelevant thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three True Things That Happened to Victor Budarin (and One That Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _Victor/Carver, truth_

This is true:

Victor Budarin, aged twenty-three and about to bring down a building on himself and as many of these assholes as he can take with him, screaming "Fuck you!" to the guy whose fault it is Victor's never going to live to see twenty-four.

The guy chuckles a bit, clearly unimpressed. One of the people he's got with him is a Mover, too; Victor can feel the fucker, pushing at his control, trying to get the better of him. He's weak, though - weak, and not desperately fighting for his life, or pissed off beyond all reason.

"Later, perhaps," and it's both the words, and the tone. The expression on his face.

Victor snaps, feels himself snap - he's always found it harder to keep in control, easier to control the big stuff than to control the little stuff, easier to destroy than to create. (He's tried building a castle out of matches once, to please his little brother. He never finished it. He's going to die.)

Around him, he can hear the building crashing down, feel his power, swirling around him, and it's glorious, knowing he's only going to be alive for a few more seconds, before he's going to -

 

This is true:

Victor Budarin, age fifteen, watches his sister die.

She's lying in a hospital bed, and the rest of the family is outside, in the hallway. They've allowed him to sit inside the room, though, right by her side. Possibly, they hope to impress upon him the irresponsibility of driving a car without a license. Probably, they are talking about what to do about him.

Definitely, they don't know he's the one who killed her.

It was an accident, of course. He hadn't actually meant to flip the car, to use his powers at all. He'd just gotten a bit angry at something she'd said (he can't remember what it was now) and then, just like that, the car seemed to have a mind of its own.

It isn't his fault. It isn't.

"It is," someone says, from right behind him. "You killed her, Victor."

There's a lot of complicated machinery standing beside his sister's bed, keeping track of her heartbeat, her blood pressure, her breathing rate. An impatient doctor and a kind nurse have explained it all.

As long as the line doesn't go flat, things might end up all right.

As long as the line doesn't go flat, Victor is not a murderer.

"Unless you come with me, you're going to do it again. Your parents, maybe. Your Aunt Irina? She seems like a nice lady."

"Never," Victor says, softly. "I'm never going to do it again." He means it utterly. "I'll kill myself before I - " and then the line goes flat, and all of a sudden, there's nothing left to say.

 

This is true:

Victor Budarin, aged nineteen, betrays his country for love.

He thinks of it mostly as lust at the time, really; say what you wish about the Americans, but they seem to know him well enough to send someone who looks like he's come walking straight out of Victor's dreams. In his own country, he sometimes gets the feeling it's his sexual preference even more than his being a Mover that makes people look at him like he's worse than trash.

Being a Mover isn't so bad, really. It's not like being a Bleeder or a Pusher or a Sniffer. Nobody needs to worry about their privacy when they're around Victor.

A lot of people sure seem to be worried about his homosexuality being contagious somehow, though.

Carver isn't like that. Carver touches him, easily, takes him out for a drink in an expensive club. At first, Victor thinks he'll just go along for a bit, enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Then, when Carver invites him back to his hotel room, it gets kind of serious.

"So," Carver asks him the next morning, "how'd you like to come to America and work directly under me?"

"Directly under you?" Victor repeats, amused. There's a slight soreness to certain parts of his body that makes him feel daring, like he could take on the world, if he wanted to.

"The position is not to your liking?" Carver smiles faintly.

"Perhaps you could demonstrate what you were having in mind, exactly," Victor suggests.

"I thought I already did."

Victor grins. "A reminder, then. If you're up for it."

"Oh, I'm up for it all right. The question is: are you?"

The answer, obviously, is 'yes'.

 

This is not true:

Victor Budarin, age twenty-nine, screaming: "For God's sake, will you stop fucking with my head!"

Henry Carver, ageless and calm, twirling a glass of scotch he's never going to drink, because Henry Carver doesn't drink. He doesn't smoke. He doesn't have sex.

On the table between them are the remains of a castle made out of matches. Victor remembers building it. He remembers being an only child. He remembers being an orphan. He remembers having a brother. He remembers having a sister. He remembers loving Carver. He remembers hating Carver.

"It's for your own good, Victor," Carver says. "People are shaped by their history. Trust me, it's better this way. For everyone."

Victor knows what it looks like, by now, when Carver is Pushing. He's not doing it yet; whatever Victor has or hasn't done for him, has apparently won him that much respect, at least.

"You don't trust me?"

Carver grimaces. Victor wonders if Carver knows that Victor remembers that grimace, if that memory's actually real. If it is, there might be a good reason for Carver not Pushing him right now - but it's not one that makes Victor feel particularly cheerful.

 _"What a waste."_ The soon to be dead don't need their minds changed.

"It's not about trust," Carver says. "Or loyalty."

"Then what _is_ it about?" Victor asks, sharply. The soon to be dead don't need to be careful.

Carver sighs. "Let's call it ... happiness."

It's probably the last answer Victor's been expecting. It doesn't fit; it doesn't add up to everything he already knows about Carver. "Happiness?"

"Don't you think we all deserve a bit of happiness in our lives? For doing what we do?"

Victor doesn't remember the exact number of bodybags he's seen over the course of the past year, but he knows there were more of them than there have been of new people entering Division.

 _We kill people,_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

"We _save_ people. We _help_ people," Carver says calmly.

 _We hurt people_ , Victor thinks. It should probably bother him, but it doesn't.

Carver sighs. "If only we could find a way to also save ourselves."


End file.
